The Sorcerer

by Denning, Troy

  Galaeron hurled his shadow sphere, only to see the phaerimm stick an arm through the net and open an extradimensional portal in its palm. The black orb grew elongated, then curved toward the hand and vanished like a hawk down the gullet of a hungry dragon.

  A new flight of magic bolts shot back at Galaeron. The first three dissipated against the flickering spell-guard, but the fourth burned through and sent him tumbling back through the air. The fifth and sixth landed, pinning him against the duskblossom hedge and burning thumb-sized holes in his body. Though his phaerimm disguise prevented even him from seeing where they landed, a searing pain shot through his thigh, and his shoulder went numb.

  Keya screamed her rage and sent her darksword tumbling past Galaeron’s head. The phaerimm raised a hand and deflected the attack with a blast of force.

  Takari rose out of the pond beneath it and plunged Kuhl’s darksword up into the thickest part of its body. The thornback filled the root thicket with roaring gales of pain and finally teleported away.

  Or, rather, tried to teleport away.

  An instant after it vanished, it reappeared outside Galaeron’s shadow net, scattering across the pond in precisely diced squares. Takari caught much of the spray square on and emerged with a cube of phaerimm flesh hanging from the end of a thorn lodged in her shoulder. Not seeming to notice, she charged over to the hedge still holding Kuhl’s darksword and slipped through to the other side.

  Keya rushed to Galaeron’s side.

  “How bad?”

  “Not bad,” he said. “I’ll survive.”

  “You’d better.” Keya extended her hand, and Dexon’s darksword flew back into her grip. “The baby’s going to need an uncle.”

  She smiled and slipped through the hedge to join the others. It was not until she was gone that Galaeron realized what he had seen.

  Takari had been holding Kuhl’s sword. Her hand did not look cold.

  No wonder Kuhl had been unhappy to see him.

  Galaeron looked back into the pond and saw the Vaasan floating on his back, a pink cloud halloing his head where a long gash was pouring blood into the water. Kuhl’s head had been propped on a log. His chest was rising and falling at regular intervals, and his eyes were already beginning to flicker open. Leaving the Vaasan to awaken on his own, Galaeron flew over the hedge. He nearly lost his leg when a warrior of the Cold Hand rose from the other side, and mistaking him for the enemy, reached for his borrowed darksword.

  “Spare your fingers,” Galaeron said in Elvish. “I’m our thornback.”

  The elf flushed with embarrassment. He let his weapon slip back into its scabbard.

  “Sorry for the mistake, Lord Nihmedu.”

  Though hardly the first time Galaeron had been addressed by his formal title since returning to Evereska, it made him feel more remorseful than respected. Lord Nihmedu was his father. That he carried the title now only reminded him that his mistake had cost his family as dearly as his city.

  Galaeron acknowledged the warrior’s politeness with a dip of his head-disk, then continued across the garden’s formal access path into the open woods beyond. The fighting there was over as well, with Vala and the others poking around the bushes in search of stragglers. From the looks of things, the fight had not been a difficult one. There were no more than a dozen mind-slaves scattered among the trees, most of them bugbears. Galaeron saw only two beholders and a single illithid.

  Whatever the attack was, it was not the preventive strike he had feared. Galaeron extended a finger and whistled. Manynests dropped out of the bluetops, whistling nonstop about how close he had come to being blasted into feathers and how fast he had flown to avoid it.

  Galaeron let the bird peep himself out, then said, “Now you must fly to Cloudcrown Hill. Khelben is expecting you, and he’ll worry if you don’t show.”

  Manynests peeped a question.

  “I know I’m bleeding,” Galaeron said, “but there’s no need to worry him about that. The attack continues as planned.”

  Manynests peeped another question.

  “Yes, I did see how fast you flew,” Galaeron said, “but no, I don’t think all the thornbacks are after you now. They have other quarry to hunt. Now, off with you.”

  Galaeron raised his hand and launched the finch, which vanished into the forest canopy.

  “Takari!” an angry bellow erupted from the hedge behind Galaeron.

  Galaeron twisted around to see Kuhl’s burly form pushing through the duskblossoms. A steady cascade of blood was pouring out of his head wound, concealing his sunken eyes behind a red curtain and filling his bushy beard with thick, steaming crimson. Somehow, he saw through the torrent clearly enough to locate Takari, who was using his darksword to poke through the snarled stems of a giant bell-bramble.

  “Thief!” Kuhl staggered forward, his hand rising to call his darksword. “My sword!”

  Takari’s knuckles whitened as she fought to hold the weapon.

  “Let me use it a while. You can barely walk.”

  “Elven trollop!” Kuhl continued forward, not seeming to realize that in the case of a wood elf, at least, that was a little like calling a snake a reptile. “It was never me you wanted. I see that.”

  “That’s not true.” Takari wrapped her second hand around the hilt. “I wanted you, too, sometimes.”

  She began to back away. Though it looked like she was retreating, Galaeron was astonished to see Takari holding the darksword tip down, grasping the hilt in a double-hand stack and keeping a half-open stance. She was trying to look helpless and unprepared, inviting Kuhl to charge.

  And charge Kuhl did, leaping forward with all the power and speed of a wounded rothé. Even flying, Galaeron knew he would never intercept the man in time to save his life. Instead, he flicked a strand of shadowsilk in Kuhl’s direction and spoke a quick incantation, catching him in the same shadow net he had used to tangle the phaerimm.

  The net appeared around Kuhl a mere three steps from Takari, and his momentum carried him forward another two before he crashed to the ground. Worried that Takari would go ahead with her plan anyway, Galaeron used the trailing line to pull the kicking Vaasan safely out of harm’s way.

  Kuhl rolled around so he could face Galaeron.

  “And you are her panderer!” the Vaasan shouted. “This was your—”

  Galaeron pinched his fingers together and uttered a spell, and the Vaasan fell silent. He handed the trailing line to the warrior who had addressed him as Lord Nihmedu with instructions to keep Kuhl safe but bound, then turned to deal with Takari.

  Vala was already handling the matter. She had crept up behind Takari—no easy feat—and plucked the wood elf off the ground. Vala wrapped a burly arm clear around her body and grasped her sword arm just above the elbow. With her feet off the ground, Takari had no way left to defend herself except drop the darksword and cast a cantrip, and she was not dropping the sword.

  Vala wrapped her thick fingers around Takari’s wrist and slowly twisted it back toward the thumb, and the darksword dropped free. She passed her captive to Burlen with instructions to choke her unconscious at the first sign of trouble, then she picked up Kuhl’s sword and used it to slash open the shadow net holding Kuhl.

  “Here’s your sword,” she said, returning the weapon. “Put it away and get that cut attended to, and don’t even look in her direction.”

  “But she—”

  “Kuhl! I’ll take care of it.” Vala shoved him toward the hedge, then turned granite-hard eyes in Galaeron’s direction and said, “We need to talk.”

  None to happy to see Kuhl free and Takari restrained, Galaeron dipped his head-disk in agreement.

  Vala led the way to a small hollow where they could speak privately.

  “I should have known this would happen.” Her tone was angry, but not accusatory. “You’ll have to take one of them with you.”

  “Why?” Galaeron asked. He was still unhappy with—and a little suspicious of—her decision to free Kuhl and
restrain Takari. “Because you’re jealous of her?”

  “You think this is about you?” Vala rolled her eyes. “Get over yourself. Takari is carrying Kuhl’s baby.”

  “I realize that,” Galaeron said, “but I am not enough of a human to be jealous—”

  Vala brought a hand up and managed to find Galaeron’s head through his disguise and cuff him—more or less gently—above his ear.

  “Are you listening?” she demanded. “We can sort that out later, if we live long enough. We’ve got a problem with Takari and Kuhl.”

  “That much was apparent,” Galaeron said, finally overcoming his initial reaction to how she had handled Takari. “Perhaps you should explain the rest.”

  “Thank you,” Vala said.

  Before she could begin the explanation, Keya appeared at the edge of the hollow and came down to join them.

  “I sent Burlen to watch Kuhl and put an elf in charge of Takari.”

  Keya was informing, not asking permission, and Galaeron was again impressed with the commander she had become. Her arrangement was both more secure and likely to raise less resentment in the rest of the company.

  “I think they’re really ready to kill each other,” Keya continued. She turned to Galaeron. “And you’re not helping matters. I know you and Takari have a past, but do you have to rub Kuhl’s nose in it?”

  “That’s not the real trouble,” Vala said. Even she did not question Keya’s leadership; she simply turned to include the young elf in the conversation. “Kuhl’s darksword has a history.”

  “A history?” Galaeron asked. “They all have histories.”

  “Not like this,” Vala said. “Most of our darkswords have passed through the hands of five or six warriors, eight at most. Twenty-two have carried Kuhl’s sword.”

  “Twenty-two?” Keya gasped. “That’s one every five years.”

  “The bearers are lucky to carry it that long,” Vala said. “The first was Yondala, who took the weapon up to defend her child from a flight of saurians. After, her husband began to grow jealous of the power she wielded. One morning, we found her floating in the marsh, and Gromb had the sword. When it was determined that he had killed her in her sleep, he tried to escape Bodvar’s justice and used the darksword to slay two more warriors. The weapon was given to their eldest son, but he died a year later when a rock fell on his head while he was playing with his brothers.”

  “And Bodvar let the family keep such a sword?” Keya gasped.

  “It was not his to take, and it would have come back the instant some relative of Yondala’s stretched a hand out and called to it.”

  Nor would they have dared destroy the weapon, Galaeron realized. Even he could not say what would happen if one of the blades was broken—nor how Melegaunt would have reacted. He nodded to Vala.

  “You’re right, we can’t have them together—especially not during the battle.”

  “I’ll dismiss Takari from the Cold Hand,” Keya said. “She can go back to the Hidden Caves to help Dexon guard the children.”

  “If you dismiss her from the Cold Hand, you can’t tell her to do anything,” Galaeron said. “Do you really think she’d stay away from the battle?”

  “Not likely,” Vala said. “One of them must go with you.”

  “That’s almost a death sentence,” Keya objected. “Galaeron will be lucky to survive with his shadow magic.”

  “We will all be lucky to survive, no matter where we are,” Vala replied, “and one of them is sure to die if we do anything else.”

  Keya considered that, then nodded.

  “Galaeron should choose.” She turned to him and continued, “Whoever it is will be fighting at your side. You should choose the one who will help the most.”

  Galaeron knew that Keya’s suggestion—no, her order—made sense, but it felt like she was asking him to choose between Takari and Vala. He had already done that once, during the battle with the second Wulgreth, when he had been forced to chose between saving Vala’s life and protecting Takari. He had saved Vala, and Takari had been terribly injured, and he did not ever want to make a decision like that again.

  If he took Takari, he stood a good chance of losing her forever. If he took Kuhl, Vala would know he was saving Takari’s life at the expense of one of her followers. While Vala had already made clear she would consent to the decision, he doubted she would ever forgive him for it.

  Galaeron looked back to Keya and asked, “Who’s doing was this situation? Did Takari pursue Kuhl, or Kuhl—”

  “That has nothing to do with your decision,” Keya said. “Choose the one who’ll be the most use to you.”

  “Kuhl’s wound is not serious,” Vala said, “and he will have his darksword.”

  “But Takari has fought at your side for twenty years,” Keya said. “She will know what you are going to do before you do it.”

  Keya’s argument made clear which choice she believed he should make—and Galaeron knew she was right. Even without Kuhl’s darksword, Takari would be better at watching his back, and he would be better at watching hers.

  “Keya, you’ve grown too wise for one so young.” Galaeron closed his eyes, then said, “Takari.”

  Keya laid a hand on his arm. “She’s the best choice, Galaeron.”

  “We’ll start the shadow walk from here,” he said. “It will give us time to prepare.”

  “As you wish. I’ll send her along.”

  Before leaving, Keya stretched up to kiss his cheek, but missed because of the phaerimm disguise and got his chin instead.

  “Soft songs, my brother.”

  “And light laughter, my sister,” Galaeron said. “Father would have been proud.”

  “Of both of us.”

  Her eyes grew glassy and wet. She turned away and wiped them, then disappeared over the rim of the hollow.

  Vala grabbed hold of Galaeron’s ears, no doubt misled by his magic disguise into thinking she had taken him by his hands.

  “No need to worry about your sister, Galaeron. Dexon has Burlen and Kuhl looking after her. I’ll be there, too.”

  “Then she’ll be fine, I have no doubt,” Galaeron said. “As long as my plan works.”

  “It will—I have no doubt.”

  Vala leaned in, finding Galaeron’s lips the first time, and kissed him long and hard—Vaasan hard. He wrapped his real arms around her waist and held her there until he began to grow dizzy from lack of breath.

  When he finally let go, she stepped back and studied Galaeron with a raised brow.

  “Never thought I’d do that.”

  Galaeron frowned in confusion, then realized she could not see his expression and had to ask, “What?”

  Vala made a sour face and said, “Kiss a phaerimm.”

  She started after Keya, but stopped atop the hollow to look back over her shoulder.

  “But I’m glad I did—and I’d have done it anyway, even if you had chosen Kuhl.”

  “Would you have?”

  The question slipped out before Galaeron realized he was truly asking it, but he did not try to attenuate the doubt it implied. When it came to offending others, even those he loved, his shadow had made him fearless.

  Vala’s tone grew serious, though not angry. “I understand about Takari—I truly do.”

  Galaeron felt as though a knot in his chest had come undone.

  “I’m glad,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “No reason to thank me. I’d never want you to do something that cold for me. I know I wouldn’t for you.”

  Vala drew her sword and turned toward the Company of the Cold Hand.

  Soot-starred and smoke-shrouded though it was, Cloudcrown Palace was the finest example of Evereska’s naturist architecture that Aris had yet seen. From the slope below, where he was hiding in the trees at the edge of what remained of the forest that had once covered all of Cloudcrown Hill, the palace resembled a stand of bluetops packed so closely together that the huge boles had grown into each other. The scalin
g on the bark was so expertly done that even his practiced sculptor’s eye would not have known it was stone, save for the handful of places where an enemy spell had actually penetrated the defensive magic and cratered one of the ancient towers.

  The antimagic shell the phaerimm had erected around the palace was functional but artless, a bell-shaped dome of shimmering translucence that soared up from beneath the ground and vanished from sight a thousand feet or more overhead. Aris knew it had to continue far higher and curve inward to cover the tower pinnacles, but even his eyes were not keen enough to see a variation so subtle at such a great distance.

  The thornbacks themselves were standing watch on the slope above, hiding among the tangles of blast-toppled trees that covered the hillside. So far, Aris located only three on this side of Cloudcrown, spaced at even intervals in a semicircle just out of arrow range. Their mind-slaves—and more than a few of their fellow phaerimm—lay scattered over the killing zones beneath the palace’s hidden arrow loops, a decomposing testament to the ferocity of the battle that had ended in stalemate.

  The undulating speck of a tiny finch rounded the palace wall at what would have been treetop height, had there been any trees still standing, then disappeared in the direction of the statue of Hanali Celanil. Though Aris had not yet visited that particular work, he had been assured by everyone who had that it was among the city’s finest. Rumor had it that it was also as old as Evereska itself, which would make it one of the few surviving examples of high elven religious art from the Pre-Netheril period.

  Something sharp pricked his knee, and he looked down to see Storm Silverhand slipping her dagger into its scabbard. She did it without looking, for she was scowling up at him with a worried expression.

  Red eye? Her fingertalk was as fast as Galaeron’s, which made it difficult to follow. That’s the sigil.

  Sigil? With his long fingers, Aris suspected his reply seemed to Storm like he was drawling or stuttering. There’s a sigil?

  Fur the tackle!